


3 A. M.

by easmith32



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 20:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21142403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easmith32/pseuds/easmith32
Summary: Really?! Y'all really gonna make me be the first to write a Malcolm/Gil fic? 5 weeks I held out, sure someone else would do it. I literally couldn't NOT write this. Fine, ya know what, me and my canoe. We'll be floating over here.Angst, cause how else do you write Malcolm?Like hard core angst.





	1. Chapter 1

Not all of Malcolm's nightmares were about his father.

There were the ones about his Mother. He'd wake with Tears on his face, fresh visions of standing over her coffin. Or, to be absolutely honest (and if he couldn't be honest with himself in his own head, where could he be), he'd awaken in a cold sweat from dreams where he'd snapped and was found over her corpse. He always seemed to wake on the clang of the door of his cell (right next to Dr. Whitley thanks subconscious) closing on the remains of his sanity.

He'd dream of Ainsley sometimes. That the Surgeon or some other Monster had got to her and he couldn't protect her. Or worse, that he'd be looking into another cell, only it was his baby sister he was looking at.

Very basic. A First Year Jungian Student could have interpreted them and diagnosed him easily. Those were the nightmares he could discuss with his Therapist, if he had to.

Then there was The Dream. The One he couldn't discuss with anyone. The Nightmare to End All Nightmares.

The One about Gil.

Not Gil dying, though there had been plenty of those over the years. Malcolm knew better than anyone exactly how dangerous life as an NYPD Lieutenant could be. Especially in Homicide. Dead Gil nightmares were hard, granted, but livable.

No The Dream was worse. He couldn't even call it a nightmare because he was never frightened by it. Only Devastated. He'd been having it since he was 17.

It always started differently but ended the same way. They'd be hanging out (on a stakeout, playing a video game, walking in the park, discussing a case), and he'd make Gil laugh. The laugh is what did it. Gil seldom laughed out loud. Even more seldom since losing Jackie. But when he did, it transformed his whole demeanor in a way that transfixed Malcolm. Gil laughing was always the turning point.

He would laugh and Malcolm's mind would split. Not as if he no longer had any control of his body. More as if he were standing to one side watching himself ruin everything. Time would slow to a series of snapshots.

Snap. He's leaning forward.

Snap. His lips meet Gil's.

Snap. For a humming minute, he's as happy as a PTSD riddled Insomniac with Anxiety gets.

Snap. Gil jerks back, shock and displeasure marring his features.

Snap. Gil backs away. (He doesn't punch. Gil would never strike Malcolm, even in his worst nightmares.)

Snap. Gil turns and walks out. Malcolm falls to his knees, realizing he's lost another Father. And this time it's his own fault.

Snap. Malcolm is left alone, kneeling in the wreckage of his life and emotions.

Malcolm sits up, sobbing around his mouth guard. Sitting there, waiting for the tears to stop, he renews the vows he made to himself when he was 17.

Gil would never know just how much Malcolm was in love with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So Arroyo means Mountain in Spanish so my Canoe is the SS Mt. Bright. It's my canoe and I can call it what I like.

Gil contemplated the ceiling. He was deeply familiar with his ceiling. He knew the whorls of the paint left by the brush, the nicks where the paint had chipped for whatever reason, the cobweb growing in the farthest corner of the room, the one he could never quite get all of even with a broom. He knew the ceiling the way he knew his beloved's face.

It had taken two years of ceiling staring to come to grips with Jackie's ghost. Death had come both slowly and far to quickly. There had been time to say their goodbyes, settle affairs, have the necessary conversations. He still hadn't been ready when she went, though. He hadn't been ready to let her go. And he certainly hadn't been ready for their last conversation.

-two years ago-

The pain was getting bad. He could see her bracing and reached for her morphine button. He was always more willing to reach for her painkillers than she was. He was startled when she took it without argument but unsurprised when she didn't press it.

"Not yet, Darling. I need a clear head for this." The wheeze in her voice made him breathe deeper in reflex, savoring his ability to draw a deep breath, hating himself for being able to breathe when she couldn't.

He struggled to keep a smile on his face and gently teased. "Need a clear head, do you? Is this when you tell me you're having an affair?"

She chuckled breathlessly. "Actually, that's what I wanted to discuss." She chuckled again at the shock on his face. "Not me, Darling. You. You'll need someone after I'm gone." She waved a hand before he could say anything. "I'm not saying you'll not mourn me. I expect you to mourn deeply. But, mourning ends. One day, you'll be ready and when you are, I want you to find someone." Reaching out, she brushed his hair from his eyes.  
"You and Malcolm. My boys need looking after." As her eyes drifted shut she murmured, "He loves you, you know."

Gil's throat was so full of grief it ached and his voice was gravelly with it when he replied, "I know. I love him, too."

Her eyes opened, deep, serious, and perfectly clear through the pain.

"Do you? My Darling, that boy has been in love with you since he was 17." Shaking her head ruefully at the way his jaw dropped, she smiled.  
"How could I not see it? I've seen the look of one in love with you too many times in the mirror not to recognize it. He loves you."

Her eyes closed again before he could think of anything to say.

That night the seizures started.

She never regained consciousness.

-now-

Laying in his bed, staring at the whorls, Gil continued his nightly argument with Jackie. 

He wanted to call her wrong, but Malcolm was not at all as subtle as he thought. And, once noticed, it was impossible not to see the way he lit up in Gil's presence.

He had logically argued against it. He'd helped raise him. They were family. 

'Not blood, Darling.' Jackie's shade whispered.

Eyes on the cobweb, he reminded her that the last thing a beautiful, intelligent young man like that needed were the unwanted attentions of a broken down cop twice his age.

'He deserved better than Il Monstro for a Father as well. And Not necessarily unwanted.'

Gil let out a sigh. That was the Hell of it. Would giving that boy what he asked for with his eyes and his voice and his fidgety hands make Gil any better than The Surgeon?

Gil rolled over, resolutely closing his eyes and renewing the vow he took Everytime he had this conversation with his dead wife.

Even if she was right, Malcolm would never know just how much Gil wanted him.


End file.
